


the armor of your wolfskin

by elithewho



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Incest, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Pining, Sexual Content, Shame, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 15:08:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11992296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elithewho/pseuds/elithewho
Summary: He thought she only wanted the comfort of a brother’s affection, of the family she had been torn away from. She didn’t want his base and un-brotherly desires. Though he couldn’t deny her the affection and camaraderie they had fostered together, he found it more and more difficult not towantall the things he knew in his heart he should not want.





	the armor of your wolfskin

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks as always to Morgan for the beta, you're my sun and stars.

The snow was still falling. It was always falling. Jon could not see the beauty in it, not anymore. In it was the memory of pain and fear and hopelessness, the future of a winter without end. It covered the world in a suffocating, colorless shroud, blurring the edges of reality, making it too indistinct to touch.

But when he saw his sister out walking the walls of Winterfell, he could see the beauty again in the constant snowfall. There were soft, large downy flakes that fell slow and soundless. Sansa wore her cloak pulled up over her bright hair, but the end of her braid might peek out from under her hood, vibrantly red in the ashen landscape. She looked lovely surrounded by snow, her pale skin luminously alive against the pale background, glowing like the full moon in summer. Sansa had grown into a woman who wore sadness with grace and dignity. He hated to think it, but she was beautiful in her melancholy. She’d been a pretty child, bright and smiling to everyone but him, her bastard brother. Now the only smiles she had were only for Jon Snow, King in the North.

Those secret smiles they shared in private made him warm in the cold depths of winter and sometimes, when he’d drunk too much wine, he’d wish that he wasn’t her brother. She would hug him, touch his hand fondly, lay her head on his shoulder. Jon told himself he enjoyed her sisterly affection for what it was. He had always longed for family, for that bond between siblings that wouldn’t be tainted by the nature of his illegitimacy. As a child, he had felt that bond with Robb, Bran and Arya and those were memories that still felt as warm as spring. Sansa had never treated him kindly in their youth but now she turned to him with love, called him her true brother, shared wine with him in what had once been their father’s chambers. That warm glow of acceptance was what he treasured on those evenings, he told himself. Nothing more.

He watched her from the window, leaving faint footprints in the snow that were slowly erased by the blanket of white that fell behind her as she walked. She turned to him, glowing pale blue and vivid red against the dull field, and when she raised a gloved hand to wave at him he waved back. Even with no one watching, her face remained impassive. Smiles were for the evening.

“Soon there will be no wine,” Sansa said softly after their evening meal, the fire crackling before them. “All the grapes will die.”

“There are great storehouses in Dorne, filled with casks upon casks of it.”

“If the winter lasts long enough, we’re sure to drink it all. Or there will be no one left to drink it.”

He looked at her and she smiled. She meant to soften the bleak statement with humor, but he could only smile tightly in return. The snow fell outside their window with increasing thickness.

Sansa had been discussing their winter supplies with the lords all day. All week, even. It was a constant topic of debate and anxious counting and recounting and calculating. Having enough wine for the winter ahead of them was the smallest of their concerns.

“I should retire,” Jon said, draining his goblet. They may very well be counting their wine glasses in the near future.

“Not yet,” Sansa muttered, reaching for his hand.

Jon allowed her soft skin to envelop his fingers. She still had a lady’s hands, smooth and soft as kid. His own were rough and calloused as the rest of him. Sansa may feel soft, but he knew that hardened stone lay at her core.

He relented. She smelled faintly of weirwood sap; out walking in the godswood again. He’d seen her there before, the fallen leaves on the snowbanks as red as her hair. The scent recalled his childhood so vividly that he could close his eyes and be ten years old again, playing knights and dragons with Robb and Theon. But he opened his eyes and looked at her.

She had thrown off her heavy furs that cocooned her in an armor like fierce wolfskin, the hairs around her neck standing on end the way a she-wolf's would as she snarled at prey, trying to look larger and more fearsome. She was the Lady of Winterfell by day but at night, with him, she was just Sansa again. The neck of her dress was loose and unfastened and he could see the smooth planes of her breastbone, sharpened by the bright flickers of orange flame. The firelight lent gold threads to her hair as well, still braided but not as tightly, loose tendrils now touching her face and kissing the smooth skin of her cheek. His fingers twitched, itching to brush it away.

His sister, he had to remind himself in these moments, though the wine and the firelight and their closeness seemed to confuse his mind. She was his sister, and she had suffered enough at the hands of cruel men. Still, he had spent his nights alone for so long. The cave with Ygritte felt like thousands of years ago now. She had told him to stay with her, and sometimes he wished he had. They’d never shared a proper bed or oaths beneath a weirwood but their closeness had been just as real for the short time it lasted. He’d ached for her, alone in his chambers, not just for her body but the intimacy of having someone to touch and hold. Lately, his dreams had changed. There was a redheaded girl beside him, not a wildling but a lady with snow white skin and blue eyes. She called him by his name and petted his hair. His body yearned for her, but when he woke it was with tears in his eyes. Loneliness was an ache inside him, empty as the endless stretches of ice and snow beyond the Wall.

He tried not to think about any of that while sharing wine and conversation with Sansa. She only wanted the comfort of a brother’s affection, of the family she had been torn away from. She didn’t want his base and un-brotherly desires. Though he couldn’t deny her the affection and camaraderie they had fostered together, he found it more and more difficult not to _want_ all the things he knew in his heart he should not want.

“If the snow does not let up, we’ll be buried by morning,” Sansa commented, her voice calling him away from his desperate thoughts.

“Maybe it would be a better fate,” Jon said, intending to be blithe, but the words came out wrong, tempered by the darkness in his mind.

Sansa shivered and then turned to him, smiling. “Buried under a white blanket, falling soundly asleep. Sounds peaceful.”

“Very soundly,” he said and reached out to rub her shoulder. “You’re cold.”

“I’m fine,” she said, but leaned into his touch.

“I’ll add another log to the fire.” He made to pull away.

“Hug me instead,” Sansa said, grabbing his hand before he could go.

Jon looked at her, thinking she was teasing him. They shared hugs, usually when saying goodnight, but this would be a far more intimate circumstance.

“I’m cold, but the fire won’t warm me,” she said, blue eyes glowing in the shifting firelight. Her eyelashes were dark red, like cherry wine, her cheek like a porcelain doll’s.

Jon could not say no to her, not like this. He opened his arms and she slid onto the chair beside him. Draping his own furs over her shoulder, she tucked her head under his chin, gathering close to his chest. She felt very small and fragile and she shivered against him. Up close, she smelled even stronger of the godswood, that sacred place hallowed with age and the footsteps of generations of Starks. Yet despite how she trembled, Sansa was warm as summer in his arms. Her hair tickled his cheek and he longed to rub against her, nuzzle at her face like a dog seeking a pet. In front of the lords, he was a king. With Sansa, he could be her loyal hound, sleeping at her feet, if she’d let him.

“I wish we could stay here forever, just you and me,” she said with a soft puff of air against his throat. His skin tingled, caressed by her breath.

“We have people to lead, wars to fight,” he mumbled, knowing that she wouldn’t want to hear that.

“I like it better with just you.”

Jon closed his eyes, fighting against a hot surge of feeling that made his eyes prickle. “We both need sleep,” he said after a long moment.

Sansa made a soft noise of distress, but finally pulled away. Her eyes looked very bright, shimmering in the firelight. “Goodnight, Jon,” she said, voice low as the crackling fire.

“Goodnight… sister.”

She stood quickly, facing the window as he left for the cold of his own chambers.

 

That night, despite his exhaustion, sleep eluded him. Jon tossed and turned, wracked with anxiety that had little to do with the fear of reanimated corpses or a winter without food. Sansa’s face swam before him, softened by memory and firelight. It was like seeing her reflection in a pond, rippling and changeable. The smell of her hair seemed to cling to his clothes, the resin of weirwood sap and the clean crispness of snowfall. There was warmth there too, like a pine bow catching from the spark of a flint, the sharpness of the wood cracking open as it burned. He had wanted to keep holding her for hours, for days, for the rest of his life. But he wanted more than that too.

In the darkness of his room, with even the moonlight blotted out by snow, he could allow those thoughts to come out of hiding. She’d grown into such a beautiful woman. Her coldness and status kept others at bay, but she let him in. She let him see her smile, she let him hold her and touch her hair. He didn’t feel like her brother when he held her. Her brother would not think about her lips, pink as the sky on a summer evening, her hands, soft as southern silk and her breasts… her brother should not think about her breasts at all. But he thought about them in the darkness of his room, in the cold emptiness of his bed. He thought how they’d be pale as starlight and even softer than the thick snowflakes that drifted around her graceful form. Her nipples, pink as her lips, how the hair between her legs would be red too. 

Jon groaned and rolled over on his stomach. He should not be gripped so powerfully by passion, like he was still a green boy only just discovering the intriguing mysteries of the opposite sex. He’d had a woman, despite his better judgment, and the last woman he should be desiring now was his own flesh and blood. She did not want him in that way. She would be disgusted, horrified, distraught by this betrayal of the fragile bond they had forged together.

Trapped between his sleep shirt and his hot skin, his prick was hard and aching. When his hips rocked unconsciously, the sensitive cockhead dragging on rough fabric, dampened now by his lust. It was so wrong to reach down and touch himself. All those night he had longed for Ygritte and denied himself, she’d been close enough to touch and he’d suffered without relief. Now he was alone, horribly and wonderfully alone, and only the gods knew what he did. He rolled over on his back, palm grazing the slick head of his cock as he rucked up his shirt. His mind provided the thoughts without even trying: of Sansa’s mouth and her hands, the warmth of her auburn hair tickling his skin. She’d taste like summer if he kissed her, of chilled wine and green saplings and fresh berries so ripe that they burst at the slightest touch.

His cock throbbed as he came, so suddenly that he gasped out loud in the darkness. The hot stickiness on his belly quickly cooled and then it was thick and unpleasant on his skin, viscous as glue that stuck to his shirt. Likewise did the shame congeal inside him, tacky and thick as drying blood from a wound. He’d felt shame at his desire for women before, but nothing like this. His own sister. Sansa did not deserve such disrespect. 

 

In the daylight, the shame did not leave him. He would see her, out in the courtyard, surrounded by lords, attending to some crisis while he dealt with his own mounting disasters and he’d be filled with such bone-deep shame that it choked him. How he wished he could love her the way a brother was meant to love his sister. 

There were other things to worry about. Things so dire and frightening that he could barely get his head around them, but his mind kept straying to Sansa. She never left him.

She did not want another husband. She had never said so, but he knew the truth without asking that she'd had her fill. Strong and capable enough to handle running Winterfell on her own while he struggled to plan the fight against an army that no one could ever hope to defeat, it was clear Sansa didn’t need to marry, nor wanted to. He did not know if they’d survive the wars to come or the winter itself; thinking about marriage, his own or anyone else’s, seemed ridiculous at the moment. If Sansa remained his only companion until the end, be it by ice or fire, he would be content.

“There’s still wine left to drink,” Sansa said that evening, after they had supped. “Share it with me.”

Looking at her made his cheeks feel hot, but he still could not deny her.

In her chambers, by the blazing fire, they discussed their day. Important things, like the war and the storehouses and the snow that kept falling. But he couldn’t hold that conversation for very long. The fear and anxiety grew too much to bear and they lapsed into silence, disturbed only the crackle of the fire. Sansa glanced out the window at the fat snowflakes drifting past. Jon had admired this type of snowfall as it drifted by her face, white crystals falling on her hair like a halo of diamonds. But she did not admire it as he did and she shivered.

“You’re cold,” he said, voice cracking only just.

She turned back to him, wide blue eyes glittering with chips of firelight. When she fell into his arms without prompting, he gathered her close like before.

Offering familial comfort, he told himself. She needed her brother.

“I miss you in the daytime,” she said in a soft whisper. “We both have to be so strong.”

“You make it look simple,” he said, hand going to her hair without even thinking about it until he felt the warm silkiness on his palm.

“It’s not. I’ve had to be strong for so long.”

His other hand touched her cheek and he felt dampness. “Sansa…”

She looked up, eyes shimmering with tears. Before he could say anything else, she kissed him. It did not feel like a kiss between siblings.

His hands clenched in her hair, the suddenness of the kiss taking him off-guard. He was still cupping her cheek, the warmth of her tears like summer rain. The kiss deepened and he tasted the warm inside of her mouth, hitting him the way sunlight broke through clouds.

“Wait --” He turned sharply, breaking away from the soft press of her mouth. She was still so close to him.

“Jon,” she said gently and he couldn’t look at her.

“What are you doing?” he croaked out, ashamed of how young he sounded.

“It’s not bad,” she said and he shook his head. “It doesn’t feel bad,” she insisted, then took his chin firmly, like a parent scolding their child, and turned his face to look at her. “I need you, ” she said, her voice shaking.

He couldn’t deny her anything. He kissed her again, this time without hesitation. She tasted better than wine and warmed his body even more swiftly. Half on his lap before, now she was draped across him, her thigh pressing between his legs and making him groan. His hand dug into her hair, loosening her braid further and spilling bright tendrils over his hands like streaks of red smoke. He thought his heart must be bursting.

“Jon,” she muttered through kisses. “Jon. Take me to bed.”

Jon shook his head, even while he couldn’t stop kissing her. “We can’t -- we shouldn’t --”

“I’ll take you to bed, then.” She scrambled up and grabbed his hands, urging him to stand. He couldn’t move, his thoughts too jumbled to think clearly. 

“Sansa --”

“No, stop. We aren’t the King or the Lady of Winterfell in here.”

“I’m still your brother,” he croaked.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, cheeks mottled pink. “I need you.”

Jon stood up. She was taller than him and she bent her head to kiss him, fingers scratching through his short beard, before leading him forward. The bed was covered in furs, gray as the direwolf on her sigil. It wasn’t his sign, it never had been; though he had as much claim to it as the North, his people had crowned him anyway. He had accepted it, but still did not feel worthy. Now he felt even less worthy to fall into Sansa’s bed, to let her pull at the ties on his shirt and tug it over his head.

But that didn’t stop him from finding the laces that kept her dress closed and pulling them loose. Her body was better than he had imagined because she was real. The fire was getting low, dimming, and the burnt orange light it spilled over the room gilded her body in burnished gold and saffron yellow. His hands shook as he touched her hips, too unsure and reserved to touch her where he really wanted.

“Don’t be shy,” she whispered, guiding his hands to her breasts. 

It was hard not to be. He’d dreamed about this, shamefully, secretly, for so long. Seeing her for real in the fading firelight was a fantasy come to life. She relieved him of his breeches and sat astride his hips. Jon sucked in a panicked breath as her warm thigh brushed his cock.

“Are you sure?” he muttered.

She looked worried. “I am. Aren’t you?”

Her hand trailed down his chest, still marred with the marks of mortal knife wounds that had never truly healed. Ugly, dark things that her white hands shouldn’t need to touch. But she touched them anyway and he squirmed at the strange, sensitive sensation. Her touch skimmed the dark hair under his belly button and wrapped loosely around his cock. He moaned softly, pushing up into her hand.

“I think so,” she muttered, giving his cock a loose stroke.

Her name was a broken moan on his lips and she kissed his face tenderly. Ygritte had taken him like this, guiding him, the reins firmly in her hand. Sansa may have been soft only to him, but the steel of her resolve was present here too. She gripped his prick and then he was inside her, the slick heat of her cunt enveloping him, holding him like a good dream. He fondled her breast and then his hands settled on her hips as she began to move. Riding him with steady confidence, her hair fell loose over her shoulders, tickling his chest. Her face pinked and she was no longer the pale, cold creature that stalked the godswood and ruled Winterfell with calm efficiency. She was warm, alive, a summer evening in the dead of winter, her hair like the sunset and her skin the pale bark of a weirwood. 

He choked out her name as he climaxed, overcome with his desire for her. She stroked his hot face, climbing off to lay beside him and kiss his neck. His heart beat hard in his chest and he cuddled close to her warm body, flushed all over and still smelling of sweet woodsmoke. He buried his face in her neck, her hair like a red cushion around him.

“Thank you,” she muttered and he looked up at her in surprise.

“But why?”

“You didn’t turn me away.” Her eyes looked dark in the last light of the dying fire, but tender, her expression soft. He kissed her, stroking her cheek. It was dry now, the tears long gone.

“You shouldn’t thank me,” he said. “I’ve haven’t done right by you yet.”

Sansa gave him a quizzical look. He kissed her mouth again, then her neck, trailing light kisses down to her breasts to find her nipples a tempting shell pink and even better than he’d imagined. He kissed one and then the other, sucking gently until Sansa squirmed and moaned softly. Moving lower, he kissed her belly button, nudging apart her thighs to kiss down there as well. She had red hair there too, but darker, like the sun barely cresting the horizon at dawn. Her breath hitched as he licked her, finding the places that would bring her the most pleasure with his tongue. She writhed against him, hips rising off the bed as she tangled a hand in his hair, tugging firmly as her climax approached.

“Oh, Jon,” she cried out as he pressed his tongue firm on her clit.

Afterward, she lay panting on his chest, hair dampened with sweat. The fire was almost entirely dead but, outside, the snow had stopped falling. It would surely start up again in the morning, but for now the moon peeked through the dark gray clouds. Timid light fell over Sansa’s luminous form until they shivered and he pulled a thick fur over them both. Swathed in that cocoon, Jon held her close. 

He had dreamed of this, longed for this. The long winter was upon them, he’d felt it in his bones. But when Sansa was with him, it didn’t feel so cold.


End file.
